


Apollo Lying

by Fleurs_et_Cuir



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Painting, Reincarnation, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleurs_et_Cuir/pseuds/Fleurs_et_Cuir
Summary: A cynic with a cold heart finds a love to keep him him warm-until the revolution. But even after him and his lover meet their fates, their love carries on forever.





	

It was always the coldest of nights when Grantaire found that he wasn’t alone in his bed. At times couldn’t remember how the stranger had managed a place in the small, broken cot of his, but then again, he couldn’t seem to care. Golden hair imitating a glorious halo around his face, the young man kept quiet and still as he slept beside the cynic, his breath so faint he appeared to be made of stone rather than flesh. Grantaire can remember when first they laid together, and how when morning came he watched the leader as he breathed, taking in the moment as long as he could. He feared when Enjolras awoke, those blue eyes would no longer be filled with love.

And yet Grantaire was wrong. It seemed he was always wrong when it came to Enjolras, their frequent arguments being proof enough. When the man would open his eyes there was nothing but heart, a strange sight to Grantaire. Instead of pulling away, of growing silent and regretful, the leader cloaked only in the red of dawn pulled the latter closer.

“Hold me.” He whispered. “The morning is cold and you are warm, my love.”

 _My love_. The words lingered in the air long after Enjolras spoke them, dancing around in Grantaire’s mind like étoiles at the ballet. He hardly registered the return of cold hands around his waist, or the hot breath against his chest. But he was fully conscious of the soft lips that met his own, and a thought passed him: possibly, this is what life was meant to be.

These nights occurred more often than not, as it became, and suddenly Grantaire felt that it was stranger to have an empty bed than a shared one. What he thought would be meaningless nights together then turned into fleeting moments and stolen kisses, hushed promises and brushing hands, secret meetings and fierce bonds. One moment in particular came to the artist’s mind, a moment that to him encapsulated everything peaceful.

It was a bright morning in May and the two had no doubt stayed in bed longer than they had meant to. The sunlight had turned from a cool blue to a striking white, illuminating the small room and casting shadows on the dilapidated walls. He knew not what overcame him, but suddenly Grantaire had an idea.

Turning to his lover lying beside him, he uttered “Let me paint you.”

Enjolras furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“I wish to remember this, is that a crime? Trust me.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras nodded and watched as Grantaire stood to fetch his supplies. When he too attempted to stand he was quickly halted and pushed back down onto the bed, being told to stay still where he was.

Grantaire posed Enjolras with gentle hands, his left arm behind his head, his face away from the window, and a bout of wild curls spilling onto the pillow and his face equally. Enjolras could barely see, but he remained as he was, listening to nothing but Grantaire’s short, concentrated breaths.

“It’s finished.”

After a few grueling hours for both the artist and the model, Enjolras stretched from his place and moved behind Grantaire to peer at the painting. A soft gasp escaped his lips at the sight of oils crashing over each other with the grace of a thousand waves, pastel blues and light creams twirling on the canvas with immense beauty. The subject of the painting looked real as though you could reach out and touch his still figure, a ray of light covering his curls like a golden aura that only the fiercest of angels possessed. The fact that something so magnificent was created in Enjolras’ image…it was almost too much for him to conceive.

“Do you like it?” Grantaire murmured lowly, almost as if he was afraid of Enjolras’ reaction to the piece.

“It’s- it’s spectacular! How is it I’ve never seen your work before? This should be hanging in a museum, mon coeur.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Enjolras. It’s not that good.”

“ _Yes it is_. I don’t understand you sometimes; you’re so intent on being cynical that you deny the gifts you have.” Enjolras wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and felt the man lean into him. “One day I’ll prove to you how much you are worth.”

Grantaire spun around and pressed a soft kiss onto Enjolras’ lips, the taste of morning still resting on his tongue. “Save the speeches for Les Amis. I am not your believer.”

Enjolras said nothing, but instead allowed Grantaire to continue with his kissing, each touch slightly rougher than the last. Soon he would forget all about R’s self doubt and let him keep his talent to himself; after all, it seemed that everything that occurred between those peeling walls would be kept only between the two of them.

That May was a month filled with wonders, one that you would find only in a work of romance. It was everything that was, everything that could be, and it was cherished. But, as it is said, this was merely the calm before the storm. June brought winds of anger, rains of blood, and desolation beyond anything imaginable.

As the revolution began to wake, Grantaire came to believe that there was no more room in Enjolras’ heart- he had replaced him with the love for his country. Words cut deeper than any bayonet, and in the end the cynic understood that he would die alone. But, when it came to Enjolras, he was always wrong. He smiled as the report sounded, and a thought passed him: this is what his death was meant to be.

___________________

The hall was crowded. Voices echoed off of the decorated walls and though they were whispers the accumulation sounded rather like shouting, a noise perturbing to one particular visitor. After moving to Paris, seeing the Louvre was the first activity of many for Grantaire. He had always loved the paintings there and yet he had never seen them in person before today.

He rolled his eyes as the tour woman explained how sorrowful Van Gogh’s life _truly_ was. Honestly, there was no reason for Grantaire to be a part of the group, he had already done the research behind the pieces and the artists in his own time. If he hadn’t had accidentally bought the wrong ticket he would be far away from the group as possible.

When she began her speech about Renaissance artists is when he decided to stray from the huddle of American tourists and wide-eyed teenagers in favour of exploring the art-filled room on his own. He stood for a moment and took the hall in with all of its collections and bright lights coming together almost to form a new piece of artwork. Suddenly, a work hanging delicately on a wall opposite of him caught his eye. Grantaire moved towards the painting curiously-it was one he hadn’t seen before.

The canvas was small, hardly larger than measly house paintings, and yet what it held was grander than anything he had seen for such a simple piece. The morning light washed over a still male figure as they lied in an unkempt bed, a messy scene that somehow managed to look like a work from heaven. Grantaire peered at the plaque below it, intrigued.

_**Artist: R. (unknown)** _

_Apollo Lying ~1835_

The strewed details involved with the art only managed to make Grantaire even more interested and he stood back to study the work more intensely.

“It’s a romantic painting, you know.”

Grantaire turned and saw a young man standing behind him, blonde curls swept up into a messy bun and glasses slightly crooked on his thin nose.

He laughed. “Of course it is. She calls the man ‘Apollo’-god of light. It has to be romantic.”

The man smiled, bright teeth flashing. “Ah see, this is where you are wrong, my friend. The artist is a man. While the focus seems to be the softness of the model, his face is stern. Most male artists during this period had the trait of portraying fierce men in their works.”

Grantaire stood back impressed. “You know a lot about this, then? About art?”

The man shook his head. “Not really, no. Just this piece. We were shown a picture of it in school and it sort of- stuck with me. And when I like something I _might_ go overboard and analyze every fact about it.”

“Might?” Grantaire snorted. “I’m an art student and I didn’t even know this piece existed until now. I’ve never met anyone this intense about _one_ painting.”

He shrugged. “I’m not anyone.”

Grantaire paused and looked at the man; he seemed familiar somehow. “I’m Grantaire.”

“Enjolras.”

“Enjolras.” He repeated. “Is there anyway I could get you to talk more to me about this painting? I’m always up for a good art banter.”

“Sure. I have a couple hours before my next class anyway.” Enjolras said, checking his watch. “There’s a cafe down the road. We could talk there?”

“Sounds great.”  Grantaire was trying his best to hide a grin from the _ridiculously_ attractive man he was going for coffee with. And yet, in the back of his mind, something told him he knew Enjolras from somewhere. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. Giving up, he walked side by side with Enjolras out of the room, the painting of Apollo lying in the background. All that had been, all that ever was, it was right there. Between the colours of a painting, something had ended. And now, something was about to begin


End file.
